


The Thawing of Iceman

by BlossomTime



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Falling In Love, First Kiss, Gratuitous book titles, M/M, Mycroft Becomes Un-Jaded, Mycroft is Jaded, Polyamory
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-01
Updated: 2016-12-14
Packaged: 2018-09-03 12:57:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 3,722
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8714800
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlossomTime/pseuds/BlossomTime
Summary: Mycroft was called Iceman because he was professional and unflappable, cold and ruthless, immovable when needed. But also because he had a reputation for sleeping with married women.





	1. Iceman

**Author's Note:**

> I've toyed with the timeline a bit: Sherlock is back from the dead, Mary and John are dating and not yet engaged. The iceman/milkman thing is from (among other things) Louis Jordan's song "I'm Gonna Leave You On The Outskirts of Town." 
> 
> As with my previous Sherlock story, I'm still obviously American and without a buddy to beta read.

Mycroft was called Iceman because he was professional and unflappable, cold and ruthless, immovable when needed. But also because he had a reputation for sleeping with married women. Married men, too. That was the joke: husbands had to worry about the milkman and the iceman, back when there were such things as regular delivery of both for the icebox and a lonely wife at home all day. Now everyone was at work and the only tradesmen going from office to office were repairing the copiers. 

Mycroft was obviously handsome, well-mannered, well-dressed. He was rumored to be available and willing. He knew how to keep his mouth shut. Wouldn’t insist that you leave your husband or your wife. Happy to pick up the tab when a spouse kept an eye on credit card transactions. Had enough of his own money to not require expensive trinkets to keep him happy. He had uncomplicated desires. In short, the ideal partner in an affair. 

Desire was a part of his intelligence. He knew what people wanted and what he wanted in turn. He wanted physical affection and had no time to spend looking for it. As it turned out, he was surrounded by people who wanted the very same thing. 

He learned to avoid the ones who wanted to create drama in their lives, who would let vital details slip at home in hopes of making their spouse love them again, or hate them, or leave them, or stay. He wasn’t interested in being a pawn in anyone’s game. 

He learned the litany of lies people told him and told themselves. He doesn’t understand. We have an understanding. She barely touches me anymore. You can hardly call it a marriage. It’s over in everything but name. 

He didn’t need to be lied to. 

Each thought they were the only flawed one, the only cheater. But know how to see it and it was everywhere. Everyone lied to get what they wanted, from ambassadors to receptionists. Not him. Him and the people who were paid for it. They were the only honest souls in London. 

He was always alone for holidays. No one spent Christmas or New Year or even Bonfire Night with their lover over their spouse. He never had anyone to take home to his parents. Past that, he got what he wanted. His partner of the day or the week or the month or the season got what they wanted until they left. They always left. Then he was only a kind smile and a touch that lingered a moment too long away from someone new. 

Which was how he found himself with nothing to do and nowhere to be on Easter weekend. 


	2. Van Gogh

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "It seemed like an uncharacteristically wholesome change of pace for him: culture with a totally platonic acquaintance on, of all days, Holy Saturday."  
> In which Mycroft and Mary visit a museum.

After rattling about in his empty home, Mycroft decided to go irritate Sherlock for a while. But John and Sherlock were deep in a case, and out of town. Wading in fens for some reason, from what he could gather from the snippy texts from his brother. 

Which is why both he and John's girlfriend Mary were at loose ends. Which is why he agreed to an afternoon outing to the National Gallery. It seemed like an uncharacteristically wholesome change of pace for him: culture with a totally platonic acquaintance on, of all days, Holy Saturday. 

"People hate going to museums with me," she had said, "I'm just awful. I take ages to get through a gallery, most people end up waiting for me in the gift shop, fuming." 

He decided to take it as a challenge. What better place to be bored of someone than at a museum? 

Mary attacked the outing like a military campaign, minimizing what she had to carry, planning water and restroom breaks, strategizing what rooms were vital to see, which to add on if there was time. 

But once they were there, her demeanor changed utterly. She _did_ take forever to travel through each room. She took forever because she would find a painting that struck her and become utterly mesmerized. She seemed to forget her body. Sometimes her mouth hung open in awe. Her movements slowed, her breathing slowed. When she gradually came free, she would be pulled in again a few paces further. 

It was familiar. It was familiar because this is what he did, as well. Only when he allowed himself to really see, when he allowed himself the luxury of losing his iron grip on how others might see him. He hadn't known what it looked like, from the outside. He had spent an hour in front of a single painting, once. It felt like a drinking in, absorbing what was before him with every sense. It was silent around him but a cacophony in his head. Nothing so high minded as analyzing technique or placing a work in its artistic and historic context. It was only the immediacy of color, texture, shape, an overwhelming wash of emotion expressed by an artist, a connection through time and space with a pure expression from another human he could almost feel tangling up inside himself. 

It was as raw as cramming food in his mouth if he were starving, guzzling water if he were parched. It was an embarrassing animal feeling. 

Seeing Mary doing the same thing felt almost shamefully intimate. He trailed behind her staying separate from the art, staying in control, watching her in the corner of his vision while they faced each painting. 

She only spoke again when they came to Van Gogh. 

"I have a hard time with Van Gogh," Mary said, wistfully. 

"Don't like his style?" Mycroft ventured. 

"No! No, I love it. His life, that's what I think about. He was so passionate, he burned so brightly and he suffered so much. I just want to take care of him. His portraits of his friends, I like those. I like that he had people around him to care for him. And he had his brother, of course. How many people are out there, like him? Not artists or anything, just normal people who... I don't know, just have a hard time coping with the world. I wish they could all be cared for." 

So they sat, sat facing _Van Gogh's Chair_. Mycroft thought about Vincent's brother Theo for a while and then let himself be pulled in, to really see the painting. He couldn't say how much time passed. When a guard warned them that closing would be soon, he noticed his cheeks were wet with tears. Mary had leaned on his shoulder, her eyes red-rimmed as well. 

As they made their way back to the cloakroom, Mary handed him a tissue from her purse and blew her nose loudly. "See? I'm just awful. We hardly made a dent in the Impressionists." 

Mycroft wanted desperately to tell her she wasn't awful, she was wonderful. She was wonderful. 

Instead, he thanked her for a lovely afternoon and made up a story about needing to check in with his office on the current affairs of some country that didn't celebrate Easter. He lied because she had touched him a little bit too long. 

He lied because he never wanted to find out if she was the sort of person who would lie to him. Lie like everyone else did. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do you, too, want Van Gogh ruined/made more wonderful? Read Barbara Stok's graphic novel Vincent.


	3. The Wire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "She moaned and shouted as she came, but never called out his name."
> 
> In which Mycroft meets his lover.

Viv could get free of her husband most Saturdays. She would get in touch with Mycroft as soon as she knew and give him a time: two hours, three hours. If it was more time, they'd meet at his place. Less, a hotel room near where she was, where she was expected to be. More, they could have a meal, never in public. Less, a drink. 

More, he would stroke her skin, toy with the long thin braids that she would loose from the bun at the top of her head. Kiss her breasts, kiss her thighs. Take his time, lose himself in her body before she'd pull his hand or his hips between her legs. 

Less and she would kiss him roughly and yank off his clothing. Push him down on the bed and straddle him. Guide his cock into her while she stared right into his eyes like she was daring him to stop her. 

The rest was the same either way. She loved to take him deep enough to grind her clit on him, but needed quick long strokes to come, fingers on either side of the hood of her clit, pressing tight. Hers if they were face-to-face, his if they weren't. She moaned and shouted as she came, but never called out his name. 

Viv was sweet to him. Viv was the first one who spent time with him after they'd fucked. Wrapped in nothing but blankets, she would hold him and they would watch an episode of _The Wire_ on her laptop. No matter how much time they had, this was figured in. He hoped their relationship would last long enough to finish out the series. He didn't give a shit about the characters or the story. 

"Where are you?" she asked, stroking Mycroft's shoulder. "You're miles away." 

“I can't meet next Saturday.” 

“What’s so terrible about that?” Viv tipped her head down to look at Mycroft. 

“A… friend… has tickets to a lecture. Wants me to go.” Mary had emailed him on Friday. He'd stared at the message every few minutes for most of his day before he accepted. 

“So go! Sounds fun! You don’t need to be cooped up with me every Saturday afternoon. Get out there!” 

Mycroft was quiet. 

“Do you need an excuse to get out of it?” Viv eyed him appraisingly. "That’s not it at all, is it." She nearly crowed in triumph at being able to read him. "You _want_ an excuse! You’re afraid! You have a real live available person who’s interested and you don’t know what to do with yourself.” She softened a bit and curled around Mycroft. “Well too bad, sweetheart. You can’t tell anyone that you’re busy sleeping with a married woman and I’m not going to let you keep putting your life on hold.” 

“My life isn’t on hold!” Mycroft protested. 

“It is. You don’t end up with a dating history like yours unless you’re avoiding something. I don’t care if you claim you’re too busy to date. You aren’t and we both know it.” 

“I don’t know if it’s a date. Maybe I’m reading too much into it.” 

“So? So you’ll have gone out into the world and spent time with a nice person.” 

“What if it’s awful? What if _I’m_ awful?” He stroked her arm as she squeezed it tight across his chest. 

“Then you’re awful and you cope. Then you keep doing it until you improve and find someone you like who likes you back. I’m too fond of you to let you use me as your excuse.” 

“You’re so fond you want me to be with someone else?” he complained. 

“So fond I want you to be with someone who can give you what I can’t. I’m a bit of fun, I’m a distraction, but I’m not a partner.” 

“You have a partner, and you’re here with me!” 

“Irrelevant," she said with conviction, "and I haven’t left him, either. He can rely on me, even if he can’t trust me. You need someone, or at least you need to know that you deserve someone.” 

“Even if I end up deserving and alone?” 

“Yes.” She kissed the back of his neck. 

“I don’t like your bright vision of my future.” 

“You’re adorable when you’re vulnerable. Use that on your new friend.” 


	4. Dr. Ben Goldacre on Open Trials

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which an exhilarating lecture is attended.

The lecture was amazing. A wild-haired man talked at full speed and gestured broadly and it was a bit like drinking from a fire hose. He talked about medicine, but actually research, but actually transparency, but actually accountability and Mycroft felt fizzy with the rapid fire of ideas. When it was over, Mary was pink-cheeked and grinning at him in the unseasonable cold outside the lecture hall. 

“Wasn’t that _fantastic_? I’ve read his books, but he’s so brilliant in person! What did you think? Did you love it? I wanted you to hear him, he’s passionate and can talk policy and I thought you would love it.” 

As much as Mycroft had wanted to keep his distance and keep his feelings close to the vest, he couldn’t help laughing. “Yes. I did love it. Thank you so much for inviting me.” 

They hadn’t touched even once, but here he was, just smiling and talking to this beautiful person on the street, in front of everyone, and it felt like his heart was overflowing. 

They talked about science and society and the advancement of knowledge all the way to the tube station entrance and not a single moment did Mycroft feel like he had to simplify his thoughts for her. Not a single moment did he feel that Mary couldn’t hold her own and more. 

In the moment before she disappeared underground, Mary clasped his hands in hers through two layers of gloves, grinned, and gave him a quick peck on the cheek. He hardly had time to react before she was gone. Mycroft’s heart was pounding. He had never felt happier and more terrified in his life. 


	5. Postmortem with Viv

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Viv gives some (more) good advice and necessary threats.

MH: Please text when you can.  
VL: ok free for now  
MH: It wasn’t awful.  
VL: brill! told u so  
MH: But. She has a boyfriend.  
VL: was it i-have-a-bf-so-forget-it   
VL: or i also have bf and i like u too  
VL: ?  
MH: I don’t know. She didn’t say on the date, but I know him. Friend of my brother’s.   
VL: quite poss is 2nd option, vital you dont rule anything out  
VL: did she kiss u?  
MH: On the cheek.  
VL: double brill!   
VL: wait exactly 2 days and ask her out  
VL: nothing too obvy romantic  
VL: maybe in group?  
VL: fun even if is not a date  
VL: w/ many excuses to chat  
VL: v sorry must go, will pester u later  
VL: until shown proof of 2nd date ask  
MH: If you must.  
MH: Goodnight. 


	6. Silent Reading Party?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which courage is gained and then lost, but it's ok, really, it is.

“Hello. Hi. It’s… this is Mycroft.” His mouth was dry and the hand holding the phone was sweating. 

“Hello!” Mary sounded so happy to hear from him. He gained some courage. “I was wondering, wondering if you were free if you would like to, if you would like to go with me to an event. It sounds silly, but I’m told it’s quite fun. It’s a silent reading party. You bring your own book and read. There's loads of people there, then there’s drinks and after you can talk to everyone about what they’re reading.” His words tumbled out in a rush. He was afraid he sounded like an idiot. 

He’d agonized for hours over the best sort of thing to invite her to, consulting with Viv by text every few minutes. He’d worried about this being too… well, too nerdy. Viv assured him that yes it was and that this was a plus. 

Mary said yes. She sounded enthused. Details were swapped. Mycroft felt like he was outside of his own body, anxious and relieved and anxious again. 

“Would you mind if I brought John? I think he’d love it,” Mary asked. 

Everything collapsed into a singularity at the pit of Mycroft's stomach. “Sure! I’d love to see him.” He said it with as much enthusiasm as he could muster. 

He ended the call. It was like Viv had said, even if it was just as friends, he was getting out into the world. He had friends to do things with. This was still good. He was still disappointed. 

At least he didn’t have to agonize about finding a suitably impressive-yet-accessible conversation-starter book to bring that would somehow express to her all that was good in him. He could just bring the mystery he was in the middle of. Damn. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm finally working my way through the Arthur Conan Doyle stories, it turns out they're full of romance and book recommendations, too, so I'm loving them.


	7. Susie Bright

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which actions speak louder than words.

The silent reading party was actually quite enjoyable. It was in a plush hotel bar, and waiters brought a menu of drinks and appetizers on a slip of paper with a pen so that you could order silently. There was a pianist. There was a fireplace. The chairs were comfortable and filled with readers. This would actually be quite a good place to meet someone. They sat in a line at a table full of people. John read _Gun Machine_. Mary read _Blackout_ by Connie Willis, a great doorstop of a book. Mycroft got a good way through the newest Colin Cotterill before the silent part of the evening ended. 

Mycroft and John talked to each other about their books. John wasn't sure if his book was a straight-ahead mystery or was supernatural or magical realist which was making it harder to predict, in a way he was enjoying. Mycroft talked about the supernatural threads in the Dr. Siri Paiboun mysteries. Mary sat silently, chewed her lip and fiddled with the crumbs left on the cheese plate they'd shared. At a lull, she seemed to gather herself and spoke, low and serious. "I've thought for a long time, what I would say. Everything I could think of," she turned herself toward Mycroft but didn't quite look at him, "everything sounded like a cliche, everything sounded tinny or slimy and didn't capture how I felt." 

She breathed deeply and spoke while staring at the table. "Ages ago, I read an essay by Susie Bright. It was about coming out as bisexual. She told the story of when she had sat on a bed with two friends she was terribly in love with, a man and a woman. She sat between them, kissed one, then turned and kissed the other. It felt right to her. It wasn't until a lot later that I realized that the reason the story had stuck with me for so long was that I wanted that kind of love-- not being bi as much as loving more than one person-- that was what felt right in my heart. I want to kiss all of the people I'm in love with, to love more and not less. To not hide or lie or anything. I realized that it's just as much a part of me as an orientation. I knew it might never happen," she shrugged and chuckled to herself, "Really, how often do you fall in love? But that it was still a part of me." 

She reached over and took John's hand. "If I said anything about this, or kissed you, when John wasn't with us, you might think I was deceiving John, deceiving you, that John didn't know. You'd think I was cheating on him. And I didn't want you to think that of me, or be afraid of hurting John." John squeezed her hand, supportive. 

"I want to spend more time with you, Mycroft. I don't know if I'm in love. But I suspect it might not be long before I am." She looked up at him. She looked exhausted, like this had taken everything she had. 

Mycroft leaned close to Mary, touched her cheek and kissed her, gently. When he pulled back, Mary was smiling at him, happy and relieved. John smiled at them both. Mary turned and kissed John. Mycroft smiled and felt like something had broken loose in his chest. He felt like he could breathe freely for the first time in years. 


	8. Play All

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which television is binge-watched and a new possibility appears.

Mycroft didn't give Viv all of the details. He just said it had all worked out. She acted disappointed that their affair was over, which was nice of her. 

Months later, she sent him a book, _Play All_ by Clive James. It was a gloriously literate and wordy discussion of the best television series to watch all at once. _The Wire_ featured prominently. The inscription read "Here's to finding someone to watch with. Vivian." 

It was actually a long time before he and Mary stayed in and watched a disc's worth of television. He had wanted to take her out for every date, to be _out_ with her in every sense. He had wondered if his brother would make some cutting remark about his new relationship, the first visible one in years, but he seemed to barely notice. He only commented that Mycroft wasn't as pissy as his usual self, was he feeling quite well? 

But now he and Mary were watching _Jeeves and Wooster_ and discussing the costuming and laughing and talking about what had been changed from the original stories. Mary had brought the quilt from her bed to drape around them on the couch. Mycroft wrapped an arm around her waist and sometimes snuck a finger up under the hem of her shirt to stroke at the soft skin underneath while Mary scooted closer. 

Three episodes in, John let himself in to the apartment to look for his phone charger, after having called to make very sure he wasn't interrupting anything or being a pest. He ended up getting sucked into the story and watching with them. 

As credits rolled and music played Mycroft pulled Mary into a kiss, a sweet companionable thing. John looked over with a wry smile and a raised eyebrow. "Feeling a little left out, over here. No sugar for John?" 

Mycroft turned to grab playfully at John's waist and aimed a kiss at his cheek. John squirmed and dodged, laughing, and the kiss landed on his mouth. Mycroft was deeply flustered until John looked at him with such hope and affection that everything twisted up inside him. 

In a moment that seemed to balance on a knife edge, Mycroft decided. 

He kissed John again, slow and with purpose. John kissed him back. 

He turned and kissed Mary, too. 

"Well. This is going to complicate our date schedules," Mary said, shaky but happy, her eyes brimming. 

"Mary. We'll figure it out," John assured her, "we'll all figure it out," he said, looking at Mycroft fondly. 

"Christmas. Can we spend Christmas together, at least part of it?" Mycroft asked. 

"Oh, absolutely!" Mary crushed him in a hug while John squeezed his hand. 

Mycroft put in another disc of _Jeeves and Wooster_ and sat in the middle of the couch, holding each of their hands and marveling at how right he felt, in this moment. 

For the very first time, he wasn't worried about the ending. 


End file.
